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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22529305">Grey Zone</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/aewriting/pseuds/aewriting'>aewriting</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>9-1-1: Lone Star (TV 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Explicit Sexual Content, Hook-Up, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, References to Depression, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 12:15:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,236</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22529305</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/aewriting/pseuds/aewriting</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>T.K. seeks out a random hookup in an attempt to feel something... and distract himself from what he might be feeling for Carlos.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Carlos Reyes (9-1-1 Lone Star)/TK Strand, TK Strand/Original Male Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>69</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>436</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I have seen the first three episodes of 9-1-1 Lone Star so far, and this could fit in just about any time after the ill-fated dinner at Carlos’s place.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The problem, T.K. thinks - </span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fuck, yeah. You like that, huh?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He makes a noise he hopes sounds enthusiastic, redoubles his efforts. Guy’s hand is gripping his hair now, rough.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The problem is that Carlos is too nice.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Guy’s thrusting in deep. It’s almost too much. And this... this is more what he’d had in mind. Expected.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Deserved?</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Guy pulls his dick out of his mouth with an obscene popping sound. T.K. slumps forward a little, catches his breath. “Wanna fuck you,” dude’s saying, looking him over like a piece of meat.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And that, that’s kind of all T.K. wants to be right now. “Yeah,” he answers, smiling. “Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Guy grins, showing his teeth. Without warning, he slaps him, hard, on the ass, over his jeans.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And it’s not, not that T.K.’s not into it, it’s just - </span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No marks, man,” T.K. says, keeping his tone light. “Work.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Guy’s smile has a feral edge to it as he’s unzipping T.K.’s hoodie, undoing his belt. “You show this ass off at work?” he says, squeezing.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">T.K. groans, doesn’t want to get into it. He knows, from experience in Manhattan, that once you disclose you’re a firefighter, it takes things to a different place, invites more questions. He wants this to be anonymous, brief. To the point.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He helps the guy tug his jeans off. Lies down on the bed on his stomach. “Don’t need much - oh fuck.” Prep, he was going to say, but dude’s already rolled on a condom, lubed up, started pushing in.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">T.K. tries to make himself relax, really feel it. Really take it. Carlos, Carlos had been careful. He hadn’t expected that, with the way their encounter had begun. He’d opened him up, used his fingers, had offered his tongue, but T.K. had been ready, so ready.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Guy’s hand is in his hair now, grabbing, pulling his head back. “Let’s hear you,” he whispers, low, and thrusts in hard.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fuck,” T.K. mutters. And finally he starts to feel it. That spark of adrenaline, of, of aliveness that he’s been chasing since he left the fucking restaurant in Manhattan, devastated, ring box heavy in his pocket. He, he wants that spark so much, can only glimpse it at times like this - getting fucked senseless, getting high, taking a punch, risking it all on the job.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And, sometimes, with Carlos. Carlos’s smile, his touch. The way he looks at him, approvingly, after a job well done. After a good fuck.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Carlos, who offers to drive him to work, who cooks him dinner, who actually understands this life, this job...</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Carlos, who is way, way too good for a fuck up like T.K.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Guy’s pulling out, without warning now. “Over,” he says gruffly, using the hand that’s not holding his own dick to coax T.K. onto his back. With greater range of motion now, T.K. takes his own dick in hand, starts working it.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Guy’s moved up toward his face now, and T.K. has to stop an eye roll. Porn style finish, then? Okay. God, maybe Austin and New York were pretty similar after all.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Open,” the guy commands, rolling off the condom, and T.K. obliges, opening his mouth and trying to look eager. Wouldn’t have to, wouldn’t have to pretend, with Carlos. He’s thinking that, as the guy finishes, then he’s done, too. </span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And that spark, it’s gone. Replaced, too quickly, by dull grey. Numbness.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He swallows, looks down at the mess on his belly. Other guy’s already retreated to the attached bathroom. Door’s shut. T.K. glances around. Not even a fucking box of Kleenex.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Carlos had brought him washcloths, two of them, wet and dry, then a glass of water.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Guy finally emerges. “Think I could get something for this?” T.K. asks, gesturing to his torso.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, yeah,” guy says, going back to the bathroom and coming out with a wad of toilet paper. God, for real? T.K. grabs it and does his best. Then he’s up. Grabbing clothes, getting dressed, avoiding eye contact. </span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So, I’ll, uh, hit you up again?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">T.K. nods. “Yeah, sure, man.” Or not. Walks straight out the door without a glance backwards. Gets in his car and lets the A.C. blast him. Looks at his temperature gauge.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s 100 fucking degrees outside. The sun is blazing. </span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And all he feels is grey.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Later that day, T.K. encounters Carlos on a call.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hadn’t originally intended to add another chapter, but this wouldn’t get out of my head!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You okay, man?”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">T.K. eyes Carlos, who looks away quickly.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You look tired, is all.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">T.K. scoffs a bit. “Yeah, well, had a late shift and, uh, worked out this afternoon.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Carlos’s brow furrows. “Yeah? Hard one?”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">God damn it. “Yeah, you could say that.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hmm,” Carlos murmurs, looking him over. “I’ve got aspirin in the cruiser. Cold spray, too.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">T.K. looks at him questioningly.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Bad shoulder,” Carlos replies, rolling it for emphasis.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And T.K. smirks, remembers those shoulders bracketing his own, remembers gripping them, running his hands over the muscle... “Looked good to me,” he says easily, automatically, before catching himself. “Um, I think I will take that aspirin if you don’t mind.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And Carlos, thoughtful Carlos, nods and immediately walks over to his cruiser.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">T.K. watches as Carlos unlocks the door, bends over and rummages around in the glove box. He eyes his ass, wonders if he’s putting on a show for his benefit. He’s not sure if he hopes that he is or isn’t.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And then Carlos is trotting back over to him, pills in hand, along with an unopened bottle of water.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">T.K. takes everything from him wordlessly, pops the pills. Swallows. Chases them with a mouthful of water. “Thanks,” he says, voice soft.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No problem.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They’re quiet, then, just observing the scene in front of them, a fairly minor car wreck near city hall. It will be cleaned up quickly, and they’re mostly just keeping bystanders at bay.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He really is kind of sore. He... he knows he probably shouldn’t be using the app so much, for hookups. Shouldn’t be going for such rough shit right now. But fuck if it doesn’t help him actually feel something, if only for a few minutes. But then it’s right back to baseline. It’s not that he regrets what he’s doing, exactly, but he knows there’s a reason he’s keeping it secret - from his dad, his sponsor. Carlos. It’s, it’s better than fistfights though, right? Better than scoring pills. It’s not illegal.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He remembers this urge, though, from when he first tried to get clean, that ever-present itch to <em>feel</em>. And it was so damn easy in New York. So many guys, a new one as often as he wanted, willing to do so much shit with him. To him. Then he met Alex.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">God, it’s like he’s either all-in, or he’s a total slut.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He sneaks a glance at Carlos, speaking with a bystander, looking at her with those wide, earnest eyes.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He could be all-in for him, he thinks.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He, he likes being a boyfriend. Prefers it, actually. Better for his sobriety, too. And Carlos would be a great boyfriend. Fuck, the guy’s in amazing shape, he’s nice, he cooks...</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But T.K. has only a few months of sobriety under his belt, is only a few months removed from a soul-crushing breakup, a fucking overdose... He’s not ready, and he’s certainly not ready for a someone like Carlos.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You want a granola bar or something?”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Huh?” T.K. shakes his head, turns to look at Carlos.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“With the aspirin - might upset your stomach all by itself.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">T.K. scoffs a little. “I think I‘ll be fine. Hardly the worst thing I’ve ever put in my body.” Hardly the worst thing today, even, he thinks, remembering nameless guy’s dick in his mouth, his ass.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Carlos’s eyes narrow. “Okay. Yeah.” He’s quiet for a moment. “We’ll be wrapping up soon. Wanna grab a bite?”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He looks so hopeful. T.K. knows he’s trying, trying to sound casual, neutral. And, fuck, T.K. wants to. Wants to grab that bite, go back to Carlos’s place, rip his shirt off, make him give it to him hard and fast. Dirty. Fuck away the goddamn pain and sadness and haze that’s characterized his whole fucking existence lately.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He bites his lip. And that’s why he can’t. Can’t inflict that on someone he actually, actually could fucking care about. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Raincheck?” he asks, and he sees Carlos flinch, just a little.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sure,” Carlos says with a too-quick smile. “Raincheck.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>T.K. And Owen bond after a late night.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I just keep getting these scenes popping into my head! Enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“T.K.?”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Shit. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hey, Dad.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Owen glances at the clock. “It’s late, and I know your shift ended a while ago.” He looks T.K. over. “Where’ve you been?”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Out,” T.K. says with a shrug.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Nope,” Owen says, setting down his mug and rounding the kitchen island. “Not good enough, not right now. Not after everything.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">T.K. heaves a sigh, knows he’s right. “I was with someone, okay?”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Owen’s eyebrow quirks up.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“At his house. No alcohol, no drugs. Nothing like that.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Owen gives a quick little nod of his head, picks up his mug again. Takes a sip. “Anyone I would know? Cop, maybe?”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">T.K. looks up at him sharply. Owen shrugs a shoulder. “Saw you two dancing. At that bar. Thought maybe there was something there.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">T.K. lets out a wry little laugh. “Yeah, well, maybe could be. Something. Um, someday. He’s a good guy. But not, not right now for me, you know? After everything?” He looks down, traces his finger along the seam in the granite countertop. “He doesn’t need to take on this shit right now.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Owen’s brow furrows. “By ‘this shit,’ I hope you don’t mean you.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">T.K. exhales. “You know what I mean,” he mutters. “I know I’m a lot. For, for you too, Dad. Like, I’m glad we came here, but it’s still a lot, you know?” T.K. looks up at him. “And I know you’ve had a ton on your plate, with the station. You’ve seemed so tired lately,” he says, and Owen bites his lip, looks down. “Shouldn’t have to babysit me, too.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I just,” Owen starts, “just worry about you, is all.” He clears his throat. “You being safe?”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">T.K. rolls his eyes. “God, Dad, yes. Just, just blowing off some steam.” He doesn’t elaborate. God knows his dad’s been cool with him being gay, so much better than other parents he’s heard about, but he has a feeling that if he really knew what T.K.’s been getting up to lately, the kinds of men and encounters he’s been seeking out, well... he’d worry. Make him talk about it. And he doesn’t want that.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Okay,” Owen says warily. “Just seems like you’ve got a lot of steam built up, lately.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">T.K. sniffs. “Yeah, well, you’re not wrong.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s quiet then, Owen and T.K. just standing together in the low-lit kitchen. “Here,” Owen finally says, moving toward the stove. “Let me put some hot water on, make you some tea.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Dad -“</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m insisting,” Owen says, filling the kettle and turning on the burner. “It’s a new blend I’ve put together. Organic lavender, chamomile. Valerian root.” He’s filling a little teabag now.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">T.K. leans over, sniffs. “Smells good, at least.” Owen gives a pleased little nod. T.K. smiles as Owen gets out the little kitchen timer. This is <em>so</em> his dad.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“This needs to infuse for six minutes,” Owen says seriously. “Try it first, then if you need it sweeter, use this.” He hands T.K. a little glass jar.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Two Hives Honey,” T.K. reads.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s local,” Owen explains. “It’s good. And with us being so new here, should help expose us to the local pollen in advance of allergy season.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">T.K. scoffs a little. “You love this shit.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Owen gives a little half smile. “I do.” The timer beeps. “And, here we go,” he says, removing the tea bag and sliding the mug toward T.K.“Well?” he asks expectantly, watching T.K take a sip.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Mmm, really good, Dad.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Owen smiles at him, warmly. Opens the little honey jar. “It’s been a long day. Long couple months, really.” His mouth twists a bit. “And life’s short,” he says, drizzling a generous amount of the honey in his cup, T.K.’s too. “So let’s treat ourselves,” he adds with a wink.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ooooh, added sugars?” T.K. says, faux-surprised. He chuckles. “We’re really going all out, huh?”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Owen laughs too, at that. “Sure are, kid.” He raises his mug. “To new beginnings.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">T.K. clinks his mug with Owen’s. “New beginnings, yeah.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>T.K. is hit with a craving after a failed hookup.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This takes place after T.K.’s bar fight, but before episode 1x04.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Nope. No way.”</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Well, this is a first.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Wait, what?” T.K. asks, before the guy can pull the door all the way closed. And he doesn’t want to be an asshole, but -</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Listen, man, I’m not,” guy looks around, drops his voice, “not gonna do this with you. Sorry.”</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“I,” T.K. bites his lip, “I mean, that’s fine, but, like, what changed?”</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Dude, are you for real right now? Like, have you looked in a mirror?” Guy shakes his head. “You post that you’re looking for something rough, then you roll up here looking like you’ve already gone a few rounds? And lost? Like, that’s kind of fucked up, man. I’m not into violent shit, okay?”</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">T.K. exhales and leans his head back. “Yeah, I get it, man.”</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Guy’s expression softens a little. “You, you looked hot. In your pictures. But right now,” his shoulders drop, “you look like you should be, like, icing your damn face. I mean, come back in a week and I’ll gladly fuck you into the mattress, but right now it’s a no-go.”</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">T.K. gives a tight nod. “I get it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Take care of yourself, man.” And he does shut the door this time.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Fuck.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He’s out of sorts, knows he is. The fight didn’t do the trick, and the subsequent arrest certainly didn’t. Hadn’t counted on Carlos finding out. Didn’t like how it made him question what he’s been doing. Made him think.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">So he’s not. Not thinking, that is. He’d left the police station, changed his bloody shirt, opened the app. He needed... something. He’s been needing something a lot, lately. More than ever. More, more extreme, too. To feel anything, anything at all.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">You know what would really help. You know what you need.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Shit, no. </span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">It would be easy, though. Down, down on 6th Street. Near the tourist bars. He could definitely find something there. </span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He’s in his car, fast, turning up the radio. If, if he just gets a little bit -</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Shit, no. Dammit. No, no, no.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He makes the first U-turn he can, heads away from downtown. He, he should go to a meeting, but this isn’t his usual time, and he knows, knows if he hesitates even to pull over, pull out his phone he’s fucked, he’s gonna go right back to the Midnight Cowboy or whatever the fuck it’s called and find some pills. He knows it.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He needs his dad. But, no, wait - he has a thing. Some medical appointment. Dad’s been all-in on that wellness shit for about as long as T.K. can remember. Juice cleanses, accupuncture, cryotherapy, his elaborate hair regimen...</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">It’s worked for him though, hasn’t it? He’s had enough exes tell him how hot his dad is. Including Alex.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Alex had flat out told him he’d have gladly fucked his dad. Like, how did that not raise a red flag?</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Fuck, don’t think about him. He needs a call. A job. Or pull-ups, a workout. And he realizes, in a flash, that there’s one place he can have all those things. He’ll head to the 126.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">While he drives, he tries to ride the wave, like they taught him in AA. Urge surf. Let it peak and fucking pass. </span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He just needs to make it to the station.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">And he’s finally pulling in, rushing up the stairs, taking them two at a time. “Hey Paul!” he says, breathless.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“T.K., what are you doing here?” Paul asks, surprised. “Wasn’t expecting you till tonight.”</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">He shrugs. “Didn’t have anything else to do. Figured I’d just hang here till my shift.”</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Paul eyes him. “What happened to your face?”</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Leave it to Paul. “Wrong place, wrong time,” T.K. says. </span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Paul looks like he’s about to say something, then stops. Looks down at the food in front of him. “Well, if you don’t have any plans, I can put you to work chopping vegetables. It’s my night to cook, and we’re having fajitas.”</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">T.K. quirks an eyebrow. “Bold choice round these parts, Chicago.”</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Paul laughs, shakes his head. “Don’t I know it. Sure I’ll hear it from Mateo.”</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">It’s a relief, really. His good shirt is going to smell like onions and peppers, but it’s worth it. There’s something grounding about chopping the vegetables, frying them up. Like, he has to be focused, in the moment.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“Hey Paul, I followed my nose and... T.K.? Oh my god, son, what happened to your face?”</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Jesus, is it really that fucking bad? T.K. clears his throat. “Went out, and a fight broke out.” He leaves out the part about mouthing off to the wrong people. “I caught a stray punch.”</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">“A few stray punches, by the looks of it,” Owen says, frowning. Paul scoffs a little. “You need ice.” T.K. watches as his dad goes over to the freezer, pulls out some peas, then wraps them in a clean kitchen towel. “Put them over that eye.”</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">T.K. gives him a little nod, tries to change the subject. “Your appointment go okay?”</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Dad swallows, approaches him. “Fine, kiddo,” he says with a smile and pats T.K. on the back, letting his hand linger. It feels good. He can see Paul holding back a smile. “What brings you here so early, and dressed up, too?”</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">T.K. forces a smile. “Oh, just helping out, thought I might get in a -“ </span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">The siren goes off. “Shit,” T.K. says, and they’re all sprinting out of the kitchen.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">Dad looks at him. “I’ll get the info on this. Need you in uniform now.” </span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">T.K. nods. “Got it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">***</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <span class="s1">And later, maybe it was the call they were on - the girl who fell off her balcony doing yoga tricks. Or maybe it was the fact that he’d been turned down for a hookup for the first time in forever. But he thinks it’s probably just Carlos - the way he looks, talks, smells, acts. But when Carlos asks him to come out that night, T.K. can’t say anything but yes.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>T.K. decides to stop engaging in such risky behavior and be present for his dad.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter takes place after T.K. finds out about Owen’s cancer diagnosis in 1x04.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He comes clean to his therapist. About the sex, the near-miss the other day, with the pills. He tells his sponsor, too. Not, not his dad. Like... he has enough on his plate. He’d just worry, even more than he already does.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He deletes the apps, deletes some of the phone numbers he’s collected here in Austin over the past few months.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Keeps Carlos’s, though. Because they’re colleagues, after all. They work together. They...</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">So okay, they fucked. And it was good, like, really good. Like, top-notch, intense, technicolor fucking.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It can’t happen again. At least not now, not yet.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Because dad’s sick. Fuckin’... fuckin’ cancer. God damn it. And T.K. needs to be okay for him. More than ever.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">So he doubles down on all the wellness shit his dad’s so fond of - supplements, meditation, workouts... He’ll, he’s even driven two hours east to a fucking lavender farm to get Dad essential oils. Almost, almost gets a number off the hot hipster farmer, almost drags him out behind the renovated barn, almost drops to his knees and gets to work. Cause he’s never fucked someone on a farm, before, and he bets that might spur some sort of reaction, response...</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But he thinks better of it. Remembers why he’s here. Remembers why he’s not chasing this particular high at the moment. He bags the oil, gives the guy a polite thank you, and leaves. Dad’s delighted.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s an odd existence, he supposes, living with his dad, filling up his time with work, therapy, meetings, workouts.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He goes cold turkey on the sex, at his therapist’s suggestion. He’s supposed to wait at least a month. Two weeks down, two to go.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And he makes an effort, around the station, a real effort. Takes his meals there, chats with the others, works out with everyone. It helps to be part of a group, a team. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It helps to never really be alone. On the outside, anyway.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His days sober are the same as his days without Alex. It feels fitting that he can count them both at once. That his life has changed so completely in such a short time is a shock to his system. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He deletes his entire Facebook account. His whole Instagram. It’s... it’s easier that way. The idea of going through years of smiling pictures of him and Alex, one by one, wondering with each one if Alex had already started fucking his trainer... no thanks.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He drinks lots of water. Plenty of herbal tea.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He goes with dad to his appointments. Oncologist. Chemo. He’s determined to be useful - brings anything dad could possibly need. He hates it, but he loves his father, and this is a way to show him. These past few years, it’s been the opposite - Dad being there for him, Dad lending him support, Dad worrying about his health. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Alex had never understood their relationship. Didn’t get why he’d want to spend time with Dad even outside of work.T.K. is starting to think that Alex didn’t get him, period. Starting to think that maybe he dodged a bullet.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And those thoughts just get stronger every time he sees a certain Officer Reyes.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>T.K. runs into a past hookup while out with Carlos.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter takes place after Carlos and T.K. go out to the club with Paul in episode 1x05.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lunch starts out well.</p><p> </p><p>They’re trying out a new place, post-workout. One of those fast-casual spots where you customize your own salad. It’s okay, T.K. thinks. Like, it’s nice to have healthy options, but he could have put this together himself just using stuff in his and dad’s fridge. Which, admittedly, is probably better-stocked than 90% of the fridges in Austin. 95%? 99%, maybe?</p><p> </p><p>Carlos’s fridge is always well-stocked, too, he thinks, sneaking a look at him across the table as he sips a green juice. “How’s yours?” T.K. asks, and Carlos smiles.</p><p> </p><p>“Pretty good.”</p><p> </p><p>Things have been... nice, between them lately, especially since the club with Paul. They grab lunch sometimes - even breakfast or dinner, depending when they get off shift. Ice cream, once - rare for T.K., but worth it to hear Carlos order from the vendor in Spanish for the both of them, worth it to see him lick his cone with such... enthusiasm.</p><p> </p><p>T.K. exhales. They haven’t slept together. There’ve been nights they probably could have, nights when T.K.’s been so close to just crowding Carlos up against a wall and going for it. But then he remembers therapy, remembers he’s not supposed to be just jumping into sexual encounters, let alone a new relationship.</p><p> </p><p>But is this jumping?</p><p> </p><p>It’s been a few months now, and it seems... god, it seems good. Carlos is gorgeous. He seems to think T.K. is attractive, too. But that, that’s kind of the least of it. Because T.K. knows from experience that part’s not hard. He, he’s pretty damn aware of his physical appeal. It’s all the other shit that’s a liability.</p><p> </p><p>But with Carlos... god damn. Like, Carlos <em>knows</em> him. And he hasn’t turned tail. Or, or just limited their encounters to sex. He knows T.K. relapsed, knows he had a bad breakup, knows his job and his dad... knows he can get moody. Sad, sometimes, indifferent. Careless, even... And he still seems to want more of him.</p><p> </p><p>So they eat together. Work out together. Take drives together. Watch movies together.</p><p> </p><p>And if they occasionally grind up on each other on the dance floor?</p><p> </p><p>Well. He’s a firefighter, not a saint.</p><p> </p><p>He feels like he’s getting closer to healthy. Not there yet, but at least he’s at a place where it feels like it could be possible. Someday.</p><p> </p><p>Like <em>Carlos</em> could be possible someday.</p><p> </p><p>So he smiles at Carlos, here in the little restaurant. Jokes about his super-tight t-shirt. Swivels around in his seat to see how much this place is charging to add avocado and -</p><p> </p><p>Shit.</p><p> </p><p>That’s when he sees him. <em>Them</em>. Fuck. And from the looks he gets in return, they see him, too.</p><p> </p><p>He... he knew this would happen eventually, if he and Carlos hung out enough together, especially in certain spaces. He wasn’t expecting it here, though, with these two, of all people. And not now.</p><p> </p><p>First instinct is to avoid. “I’m gonna use the restroom.”</p><p> </p><p>Carlos nods, mostly focused on his salad. “Sure.”</p><p> </p><p>T.K. crosses the restaurant quickly, trying to dodge eye contact, trying to pretend like the two other members of the filthiest threesome of his life aren’t currently in the same room as him and Carlos.</p><p> </p><p>They’d looked like they were almost done, with their food. He hopes that if he just takes some time, they’ll be gone. This place wasn’t designed for lingering.</p><p> </p><p>He washes his hands, looks in the mirror, breathes deeply, and heads out. Exhales when he sees that their table is empty... but goes cold when he sees the taller guy exchanging words with Carlos. Winking at him.</p><p> </p><p>Fucking hell.</p><p> </p><p>He delays as best he can, watches them exit the restaurant. Watches the way Carlos’s brow furrows, the way he looks down at the table without really seeing.</p><p> </p><p>He makes his way over, sits down. “Hey,” he says softly.</p><p> </p><p>Carlos startles. “Oh. Hey,” he says in return. But he doesn’t meet T.K.’s eyes.</p><p> </p><p>They finish their salads and drinks in near silence, a departure from their banter earlier.</p><p> </p><p>They get into Carlos’s car. Carlos looks deep in thought as he starts the ignition, then turns to T.K.</p><p> </p><p>“You still want dropped at the station? Or do you have other plans?”</p><p> </p><p>T.K. frowns. Other plans? “I go on shift in like 3 hours. I figured I’d just get a shower at the station and sort of bum around there for a while after that.”</p><p> </p><p>Carlos nods tightly. “Just thought I’d ask. That’s plenty of time to fit in some other stuff.”</p><p> </p><p>Other stuff.</p><p> </p><p>“What did they say to you?” T.K. asks, voice low.</p><p> </p><p>“Mierda,” Carlos mutters, mostly to himself. “I, I’m not repeating it.” His jaw tenses, and then his face goes carefully blank. “And it doesn’t matter anyway.”</p><p> </p><p>T.K. reaches out, touches Carlos’s arm, the one that’s about to put the car into reverse.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey.”</p><p> </p><p>Carlos’s shoulders slump, and he’s quiet a long while. His voice sounds raspy when he finally speaks. “How... how many? Since you’ve been in Austin?”</p><p> </p><p>T.K. purses his lips, doesn’t answer.</p><p> </p><p>“No, never mind,” Carlos exhales heavily. “You don’t, don’t have to answer that. It doesn’t matter. It's not like we were, are..." He stops. Breathes. "I’ll take you to the station.”</p><p> </p><p>“A lot.” T.K. says, louder than he means to. “It... it’s been a lot. Of guys.”</p><p> </p><p>Carlos just nods. “Um. After we...?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. And before, too.” T.K. looks down. “It...” he starts. “I was trying to feel something.”</p><p> </p><p>Carlos’s mouth twists a little, at that. “It work?”</p><p> </p><p>No point in lying. “Sometimes.”</p><p> </p><p>“It work with me?”</p><p> </p><p>Shit. “Carlos...” T.K. trails off. Then decides, what the hell? He’s already this far in, might as well keep going. “At first, you were just another body to me.” He can see Carlos flinch, a bit. “A, a really hot one, but... but that’s what it was. That’s all I was looking for. But you, you were <em>nice</em> to me. Like, nice in a way other people weren’t. Um, historically haven’t been. You... it seemed like you cared. About me. Like, the real me. Even with all my shit. And I liked talking to you. Liked seeing you out on calls. Liked it even more when we’d go out, do stuff.”</p><p> </p><p>Carlos is looking at him with big, sad eyes. “I liked it too,” he says finally, voice quiet. “It’s just...”</p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>There’s pain on Carlos’s face. “It’s like the damn fight. It makes me,” his jaw tightens, “makes me worry. For you.” He bites his lip, seems to consider something. “Those... guys. At the restaurant. They told me to have fun. Said you were down for anything.” Carlos shakes his head. “Like, what does that even mean?”</p><p> </p><p>What does it mean...</p><p> </p><p>Well. What it had meant, with those guys, was that T.K. had been in the vicinity. Had been looking for a hookup. Used the app and made contact with the tall guy. Met up at a fuckin’ hardware store and followed the guy’s truck to his place west of the city.</p><p> </p><p>It had meant that the guy had bent him over the hood of his pickup, pulled down his jeans, and fucked him stupid, right in his garage... then told him that his boyfriend wanted a go, too. And T.K. - well. It’s not that he hadn’t wanted it. Just hadn’t expected it. Bad, bad etiquette, on their part, really. Like, you should mention that shit up front. That there’s another guy. Not, not everyone would be down for that.</p><p> </p><p>But T.K. was. Down for it. Down for anything, right? Honestly, at the time it just seemed novel. Kind of crazy. Different enough, intense enough to stir up... something.</p><p> </p><p>It was certainly stirring shit up now.</p><p> </p><p>“Probably means what you think it means,” he finally responds, wanting to see what Carlos will do with that.</p><p> </p><p>Carlos looks torn. “You use an app?” T.K. nods. “What... what did you say you were looking for? Like, in the profile?”</p><p> </p><p>Rough, he’d said. He, he’d said that he liked it rough. In his experience, the hookups with an edge of... of pain? Like, the really physical ones, the intense ones, those were the ones that seemed to do the trick. Pierced the grey the best, blotted it out the longest.</p><p> </p><p>Problem was, it didn’t last. He knows now, from his therapy, from AA, from all the goddamn work he’s putting in, that it had been just another high.</p><p> </p><p>“I stopped,” he blurts out, and Carlos seems startled. “I stopped,” he repeats, “almost a month ago.” He swallows. “Finally told my therapist, my sponsor what I was doing. And now I’m telling you. Always planned to tell you, eventually. Just didn’t think it would be today.”</p><p> </p><p>Carlos is frowning.</p><p> </p><p>“I deleted the app.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why?”</p><p> </p><p>T.K. sighs. “My dad. His diagnosis. I can’t be doing shit like that, the way I was. He, he needs me. And I...” Fuck, he just, just feels so low right now, trying to explain this. Had Carlos asked him about this two months ago, he’d have probably laughed. Smirked. Poked fun at Carlos for not being on the apps, too. But he’s in a different place now. Stakes are higher. With Dad. With, with Carlos.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m trying,” he says, hearing the desperation.</p><p> </p><p>And Carlos stares at him, sadly. Reaches over and pulls him close over the center console. “I know you are. I know.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading! Come say hello on tumblr (aewriting).</p></blockquote></div></div>
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